


It's Nice to Know You Work Alone

by foxxcub



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009), Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-19
Updated: 2011-04-19
Packaged: 2017-10-18 09:44:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/187570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxxcub/pseuds/foxxcub
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been two years since Detective Sherlock Holmes transferred to the Chicago PD from New York, surrounded by rumors that the relocation had been anything but a choice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Nice to Know You Work Alone

**Author's Note:**

> Detective!AU, i.e. the one where Holmes is a modern day detective and Watson is the chief medical examiner for the Chicago police. This started as a ridiculous idea in my head based on [this photo](http://29.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_ky8jpv36yN1qzate4o1_500.png) and then sinuous_curve (along with MANY others) talked me into actually writing it. She is also responsible for Captain Lestrade, fyi.
> 
> Many thanks to elucreh and gracefulfool for the beta work, and to soloproject for [creating fanart(!!)](http://midnight-city.livejournal.com/79982.html) before this thing was barely even written. Title taken from the song of the same name by The Silversun Pickups.

He gets the text at two in the morning. He's not alone, but it hardly matters. It never does.

Watson blindly gropes for his cell on the nightstand, ignoring the angry red glow of his alarm clock telling him it's way too fucking early for this shit. The warm, mostly-naked body pressed alongside his in bed shifts and snuffles sleepily.

"John? You normally get texts in the middle of the night?" Amber—nice girl, even if she laughs too loud—mumbles into his spare pillow.

Watson sighs as he sits up, blinking at the message staring up at him.

 _so cold the lights are out can't see_

Fuck.

"Yeah, I do," he replies softly, getting up without another word to go get dressed. On his way to the bathroom, he sends a text back in reply.

 _I'm on my way._

"Call me," Amber says when Watson grabs his keys. He knows he really should think twice about leaving a woman he's only known for seven hours alone in his apartment. He should also probably think about making this up to her eventually.

"I will," he calls over his shoulder, knowing he'll do no such thing.

//

It's only been two years since Detective Sherlock Holmes transferred to the Chicago PD from New York, surrounded by rumors that the relocation had been anything but a choice. Watson has always respected the detectives he works with, but before Holmes, he'd never given much thought to their personal lives outside of a case; he's a doctor, after all, a medical professional, not a cop. No matter how much respect is involved, there's always a distinct difference between the two.

Then Holmes had blown into Watson's lab late one night, ranting about traces of cyanide in the victim's blood and why the _fuck_ hadn't anyone caught this yet? Watson had only heard Holmes' name in passing— _brilliant kid, really, but the most batshit crazy fucker you'll ever meet_ was the general consensus—but never put a face to a name. He'd given Holmes a onceover, taken in his mussed hair and three-day-old stubble and blood-shot eyes, and replied calmly, "The tests are still inconclusive, Detective."

Holmes had snorted, pointed a finger straight at Watson, and said simply, "Bullshit. Make it conclusive, it's all there." Then he'd hopped up onto an empty gurney and refused to leave until Watson did exactly as he'd asked. In the meantime, Holmes smoked over the corpses waiting for autopsies and hummed off-key Neil Young songs and bitched about the hangover he was still suffering from, but wouldn't Watson kill for a tequila shot right about now?

That was the beginning of Watson's slow descent into the all-consuming world of Sherlock Holmes. He's fairly certain Holmes is the reason he keeps spotting gray hairs in the mirror, even though Watson's only thirty years old.

//

It's a strange, fucked-up routine that's somehow formed over the course of weeks and months. Maybe it's some strange Pavlovian response, or maybe Watson seriously needs to rethink his priorities in life. It should worry him more than it does that it's now perfectly natural for him to unlock Holmes' front door (with his own spare key) in the dead of night and reach for the hall light without looking and know, just as the light flickers on, that Holmes is either on the couch in the living room or in the tub in the upstairs bathroom.

This time he finds Holmes in the latter location; he can hear the shower running, and, sure enough, Holmes is curled into the corner of tub, fully clothed and soaked, his dark, wet hair plastered against his forehead. His eyes are closed and his lips are slightly parted, but Watson knows he's not unconscious. Holmes' phone is sitting on the bathroom tiles, along with his gun.

The syringe is hidden behind the toilet. At least he had the decency to attempt to hide it, Watson thinks with a sigh.

He kneels down beside the tub as he shrugs out of his coat. "Holmes, can you hear me?" Watson says over the rush of the shower. He reaches his hand out and touches Holmes' arm.

Holmes starts as if he's been shot with a jolt of electricity. He coughs as he inhales the water into his lungs, and suddenly he's shaking all over, teeth chattering as he grabs Watson's hand.

"'s cold," he whispers, drawing his legs tighter to his chest. The water is barely lukewarm; Watson turns the temperature up with his free hand, not caring that the sleeve of his shirt is quickly getting soaked as well.

He doesn't ask Holmes how much he's taken; Holmes is semi-conscious, which is enough for Watson. He also doesn't pull his hand out from Holmes' death grip.

"What happened?" he asks, not entirely expecting a response. He'd seen Holmes earlier that day, flitting through the lab muttering about warrants and "fucking _judges_ ," and Watson had assumed that, once again, Holmes had managed to get evidence thrown out due to his "overzealous" investigating techniques (i.e., way too much breaking-and-entering). But he hadn't seemed distraught at all, nothing that would've hinted at a downward spiral such as this. Watson likes to think he can read the signs.

He's not all that prepared to have Holmes whisper, "He sent me more pictures," and tip his head toward the phone laying on the floor. Watson picks it up, pulls up the picture file, and finds a half-dozen blurry shots of what appears to be the body of a young girl, bruised and beaten and unconscious, if not dead.

Watson hisses, "Fuck," and nearly drops the phone.

It's been nearly five months since since the last photo, and that had been another girl, probably the same age. They'd never found her, and that fact has eaten at Holmes ever since.

Moriarty knows this, the sick bastard.

Watson sets the phone down carefully and whispers, "You're letting him get to you, Holmes. You're stronger than this." He reaches for Holmes' hand through the shower spray, but Holmes shrinks away.

"It's my fault," he says softly, voice unsteady as he continues to shiver. "My fault. I can't save them."

Watson sighs, his arm draped over Holmes' knees and shirt soaked all the way to his shoulder. "No, you can't save them all," he replies as he slowly turns off the water. "But you can live to see another day so you can try."

Holmes makes a small huffing sound but doesn't open his eyes.

It's a battle getting Holmes into bed; Watson leaves his water-logged clothes on the bathroom floor and dries Holmes off as best he can before dragging him back into the bedroom and letting him fall onto the mattress. Holmes' boxers stick to his skin, but Watson knows he's dry enough. He tugs the covers up over Holmes, who looks asleep already, mouth open and slack against the pillow with his wet hair tangled over his forehead.

It shouldn't feel normal to be standing over Holmes' bed at three in the morning, watching him fall asleep and knowing he needs to be at work in about seven hours. It shouldn't feel normal to turn out all the lights and curl up in the battered leather armchair facing Holmes' bed and know that come daylight he'll have a crick in his neck.

It shouldn't feel normal to know that Holmes will expect him to be there when he wakes up.

//

From what Watson knows, everyone in the department knew about Moriarty long before Holmes came to Chicago. Everyone knew about the weapons, the drugs, and the high-class prostitution rings, all run by a syndicate that was as elusive as a ghost. But there has never been enough evidence to tie any of it to Moriarty, who's known throughout the city as a well-known business mogul with his hand in at least a dozen corporations. He has a doctorate degree in finance from Harvard, which led to _Forbes_ magazine dubbing him "The Professor of Corporate America" a few years back. He's slick, insanely intelligent, and ruthless, and his army of lawyers keep him out of a court room.

And most of all, he thoroughly enjoys taunting Holmes, because he knows that out of all the detectives in Chicago, Holmes is the one who will always come after him, no matter how futile his efforts are. The missing girl had been the last in a series of "clues" the Professor used in order to bring Holmes just close enough that he could taste a victory, only nothing ever came of them; all they did was cause Holmes to lose sleep and exist on nothing but coffee, cigarettes, and his syringe until someone (usually Watson) convinced him to give up, or the case died in court. And even then Holmes had to deal with the all-consuming wave of guilt that never quite went away.

Watson owns a gun that he never keeps loaded. But he thinks, if given the chance, he'd use it on Moriarty without a second thought.

//

The body gets delivered to Watson's lab two days later, Holmes wide-eyed and frantic as he paces around the gurney while Watson carefully opens the body bag. It's the same girl from the photos on Holmes' phone, right down to the identical bruising.

"He fucking left her for me to find, I know it. He left her in a _dumpster_ , like she's garbage," Holmes whispers in a shaky, breathless voice that tells Watson he's very close to cracking somehow. It's late, and Watson knows Holmes hasn't slept in nearly forty-eight hours; his shirt is wrinkled, half-tucked into his slacks, his tie hanging loosely around his neck.

"Holmes, go home," he says softly, laying a hand on Holmes' arm. "You look like shit, and that's not going to help us with—"

"I can't fucking _sleep_ , Watson, not when the Professor's leaving bodies for me like, like the goddamn Joker and his deck of cards." Holmes shoves a hand through his hair, then braces both hands on the gurney and sighs as he looks down at the girl's body. "Tell me who she is," he says, and Watson has rarely seen Holmes so frayed.

"I'll do my best." It's in moments like these that Watson lets himself take some of Holmes' despair and guilt, even if it's through nothing but the simple act of cupping the back of Holmes' neck and allowing his fingers to gently knead the tension there, to skim along the soft skin just behind his ear. Something tightens a little painfully in his chest when Holmes gives a soft groan and leans back into Watson's touch.

"I'm not going anywhere," Holmes says without looking up.

Watson smirks, ignoring the way his fingertips trip along the rough edges of Holmes' unshaven jaw. "Yeah, I know. But it was worth a shot."

Holmes laughs softly, his shoulders finally sagging in exhaustion.

Watson drops his hand and reaches for a fresh set of latex gloves. "But you could at least grab me a coffee."

"And at last we discover the doctor's true motives," Holmes drawls, finally meeting Watson's gaze. He smiles crookedly, though it doesn't reach his eyes. "The hazelnut shit, or French vanilla?"

"Surprise me."

"You're a brave man."

"You wouldn't get me what I wanted, anyway."

"Touche'." For all the frustrated exhaustion Watson knows is weighing on him, Holmes still manages to wink at him as he turns to leave.

//

Twenty minutes later, Watson hears footsteps coming back down the hall to the lab. They're slower than Holmes' normal gait, but Watson is too caught up in his autopsy to really give it much thought.

"They run out of coffee upstairs?" he calls.

There isn't an answer, and Watson is about to make another quip when a voice not belonging to Holmes replies, "I would stop that autopsy if I were you."

Watson jerks his head up to find a man standing in the doorway of the lab dressed in an impeccable black suit and matching top coat. He looks pristine and intelligent, and very, very rich. Like a corporate mogul.

All the air leaves Watson's lungs in a rush. "I'll do no such thing," he whispers tightly, his hand clenching around his scalpel too tightly. His heart begins to race as a sweat breaks out along his upper lip.

The fucking audacity of the man to show his face here, over the body of the girl he'd had murdered. Watson wonders if Moriarty has a car waiting for him out front, if he'd simply strolled through the offices of the Chicago PD without a care in the world. No amount of magazine covers proclaiming his business genius and philanthropic tendencies can ever excuse the things Moriarty has done, no matter how many lawyers keep him out of jail.

The man—the _Professor_ , Watson thinks with a sneer—clucks his tongue as he rounds the end of the examination table. "But you will, see, because that body is in fact my property."

Watson snorts. "This body is property of the state," he shot back. "It's also evidence and proof that you're a goddamn murderer." He can't quite say the words with the conviction he wants; he's running out of breath, and his hands shake as _I should kill you myself_ plays over and over in his head.

He feels completely helpless as Moriarty laughs and replies casually, "There's no evidence here! Just a nameless dead hooker who overdosed. Happens every day. Now, Dr. Watson, if you don't mind, I'd like to kindly ask again that you cease this autopsy and pursue another case."

 _Holmes, where are you?_ Watson thinks frantically, wishing like hell that he kept a gun in the lab. "And if I don't?" he asks through clenched teeth.

"Well, I'm certain you don't want anything to happen to your detective, do you? God knows he has one too many vices that could lead to unpleasant outcomes." The way he says _your detective_ makes Watson's heart stop.

"He'll bring you down, you know," Watson replies darkly. "He won't stop, regardless of what you think you can do to him."

"Oh, I know what I can do to him. The proof is standing right in front of me." He smiles coldly at Watson. "But you're an intelligent man, Dr. Watson. You know when to do the right thing. Holmes is obsessive, myopic; he doesn't see the bigger picture. I've had my fun with him, and now I'm finished. For now, at least, the game is over."

"Fuck you," Watson growls, his cheeks flushing with rage.

Moriarty laughs. "Perhaps Holmes should be more careful with the things he loves. Or at least keep better track of them."

And the next thing Watson knows, a fierce pain explodes across the back of his head and the world goes dark.

//

He wakes slowly to the smell of cigarette smoke. An instant later, Watson registers the throbbing pain in his head, so intense he worries he might have a concussion. He groans softly and turns onto his side, burying his face into a pillow that isn't his.

The pillow smells like Holmes.

Watson blinks slowly and lifts his head. He's in Holmes' bedroom, in Holmes' bed, still dressed in his scrubs. It is early morning; sunlight is just beginning to filter in through the blinds. And in the corner, curled up in his leather armchair, sits Holmes, smoking as he reads over a file in his lap.

"Holmes?" Watson's voice feels as if it's been scraped over gravel, like he hasn't spoken in days. He swallows a few times to get his throat working again.

Holmes looks up from the file, gives him a ghost of a smile. "Sorry, I'm completely out of codeine, or else you probably wouldn't have a monster headache right now." There are dark smudges under his eyes, and he's still wearing his gun holster across his shoulders. As exhausted and discombobulated as Watson is, he still catches the tick in Holmes' jaw.

"Moriarty," Watson breathes. "He came—"

"To the lab to talk you out of the autopsy, yes, I know." Holmes looks back down at the file in his lap.

Watson sits up carefully, wincing as his body protests painfully. "What happened to me?" he whispers.

"You were knocked unconscious and taken back to my apartment. Unfortunately, I didn't find you here until a few hours ago." Again, Watson spots the quick clench in Holmes' jaw, and the way his words grow soft and small.

Watson rubs the back of his hand over his forehead. "And the body—"

"Gone. By the time I got to the lab, both you and the girl had disappeared."

He swears under his breath. "God, Holmes, I'm sorry, I—I couldn't think when he was standing right there, I just froze, and he kept threatening you—"

Holmes comes up out of his chair like a shot, the file falling gracelessly to the floor, pages scattering everywhere. "Don't you fucking apologize," he hisses as he gets in Watson's face, looming over the bed, their faces inches apart, close enough for Watson to feel the heat of his breath. "Don't fucking apologize for anything that bastard did to you, you got me?"

Watson shakes his head slowly. "I could've stopped him, Holmes. He was _right there_ and I could've—I wanted to kill him, I swear to Christ, I wanted to, but I couldn't. I was too fucking scared."

Holmes makes a soft little huffing sound in his throat, and then he cups Watson's cheeks in his hands, resting their foreheads together. His callused palms feel warm and oddly comforting.

"You shouldn't be the one to deal with this shit," Holmes breathes, and Watson finally hears the fear in his voice. "He told you he's playing a game with me, didn't he?"

Watson nods, letting his eyes flutter closed.

"He had you pistol-whipped and then brought back here, where he left you on my couch with a note. Moriarty never expected you to halt the autopsy—he expected you to refuse."

And now the body is gone, and Moriarty will more than likely never have a finger pointed at him. "Then he knows me well," Watson says with a weak laugh.

Holmes huffs again, his fingers sliding back to link around Watson's neck. "Yeah, he does. Probably too well." He presses closer to Watson, their noses bumping softly. "I'm so fucking sorry I left you there, I should've known he'd come for you like this. I should've been more careful—"

"You can't watch me 24/7, Holmes."

"He knows that I—that you're—I fucked up and I'm sorry."

"If you say 'sorry' one more time, I'll punch you myself." His head feels like it's being held in a vise being tightened with each passing minute, but Watson tries to think through it, to keep Holmes talking and not let him sink back into guilt once more. He isn't dead, and Holmes doesn't need to believe in the what-ifs.

"Then we're both even, I guess." He can hear the small, reluctant smile in Holmes' tone.

Watson blames the possible concussion for his wanting to skim his mouth over Holmes', just to let Holmes know he's alive. "What did the note say?" he whispers.

Holmes pulls back slightly, eyes downcast. "It doesn't matter—"

"Tell me."

"Watson—"

"Please, Holmes."

He drops his hands and stands up from the bed, walking back the chair to pick up the still-smoking cigarette he'd dropped on the wood-paneled floor. Holmes stubs it out in the ash tray by the chair, his back to Watson.

"It said, 'Handle with care,'" he replies in a flat, emotionless voice.

Watson swallows tightly. "It's just a game, Holmes."

"It's never been a game. Not to me. Especially not now." Holmes kneels down to gather the pieces of the file scattered across the floor. Watson can see bits of pictures he recognizes as the other girl from several months ago. The murder Holmes has never solved.

Watson sighs, knowing the answer to his next question before he even asks it. "Have you slept at all?"

Holmes gives a noncommittal shrug.

"Call Captain Lestrade, tell him you're taking the morning off. You're no good to anyone as a goddamn zombie." Watson knows he should drag himself home, shower and change and maybe sleep in his own bed, but the pain in his head won't stop, and he can't bring himself to leave Holmes alone.

"I haven't even told him about the missing body," Holmes says quietly. His shoulders curl inward, as if his body's slowly giving in to fatigue.

"It can wait a few hours. The world won't grind to a halt if Sherlock Holmes sleeps for a while, trust me."

Holmes turns and gives Watson a rueful smile. "You're in my bed."

"It's a queen, you'll fit." He scoots to the side and throws back the covers.

Holmes drags a hand through his hair and doesn't move right away, but Watson sighs in frustration and says, just above a whisper, "We'll get him, Holmes. We will." He knows he has no business making promises to him like that, not when they're both running on empty, but it feels like the right thing to say. It feels right when Holmes finally closes his eyes, groans softly, and falls into bed beside Watson.

"You're still wearing your gun," Watson says, pulling the blankets up as he mumbles the words into Holmes' hair.

"Yeah, I know," Holmes replies. He reaches back blindly and grabs Watson's arm, tugging it around his waist until Watson's hand is splayed over Holmes' stomach. He rests his own hand over Watson's, their fingers tangled together loosely. "You gonna be here when I wake up?"

"Maybe." They both know that is Watson's way of saying _yes_.

Holmes sighs. "'m sorry I interrupted your date the other night."

Watson doesn't bother asking how Holmes knows he let Amber stay the night. "You're still apologizing. Stop it."

Holmes hums something unintelligible, his fingers skimming back and forth over Watson's.

They eventually fall asleep with Watson pressed tight against Holmes' back, the pain in Watson's head fading once he feels Holmes' breathing even out.

//

The bed, as well as the apartment, are empty when Watson wakes several hours later. He's not surprised.

He is, however, surprised to find a fresh pot of coffee waiting for him in Holmes' cramped, cluttered kitchen. There's a Post-It stuck to the counter beside the coffee maker with a note scribbled in Holmes' slanted handwriting.

 _I owed you some French vanilla_ , it reads.

//

Watson doesn't hear from Holmes for three days. It isn't anything out of the ordinary, but it always makes him uneasy whenever Holmes goes to radio silence after an emotionally exhausting snag in a case, especially when the case involves Moriarty.

Lestrade questions him about the night the body went missing, and Watson tells him everything, right down to Moriarty threatening Holmes. He almost leaves out the part about being taken to Holmes' apartment and left for him as a warning, but Lestrade asks carefully, "Where did they take you after you were knocked unconscious?"

Watson blinks. "Didn't Holmes tell you all of this?"

Lestrade purses his lips and replies, "Holmes hasn't shown his face at the station since the night in question. He sent me a text, said I should ask you for details." He shakes his head wearily. "He better surface soon, or he's going to get a text of his own from yours truly."

Watson can barely recount the events, his brain is racing so fast. Surely Holmes wouldn't have gone to confront Moriarty himself? He'd tried it before, in the past, but nothing ever came of it; Moriarty had air-tight alibis that never cracked, and eventually Holmes would get thrown out of Moriarty's corporate offices with a stern reminder never to set foot on the property again.

But Holmes has never had a reputation for taking no for an answer.

He's working in the lab late into the night two days later, doing a DNA test on a body, when his phone buzzes with a text from Holmes.

It's an address, followed by _come here, and dress nice._

Watson glares at his phone and types back furiously, _Where are you?? What's going on??_

A minute later, he gets back in reply, _you'll figure it out, just come. now. bring cash._

He rips his gloves off and throws them across the room, hating the way his heart beats too quickly as he shrugs his coat on.

//

The address is for a nondescript building downtown. It could have been an office building, or full of high-end condos. There are no signs outside, and very few lights on inside.

Watson parks his car a block down the street and walks slowly toward what he assumes is the front door. He fidgets with the cuffs of his one good suit, knowing his hands still smell like disinfectant and probably formaldehyde. He's not exactly in a position to attend a dinner party, or a charity ball, or whatever the hell it is that Holmes is making him show up to dressed so nicely so late at night.

There is a receptionist at the front door sitting behind an elegant white desk. She smiles politely as Watson walks in and asks, "Good evening, sir, did you have an appointment?"

Watson stares dumbly at her. "I—"

"Oh, you're Dr. Watson, yes? Patricia will be with you in one moment."

He can feel his palms start to sweat. God only knows what Holmes has gotten him into, if only he'd _told_ him what the plan was, or what the hell was even going—

"Dr. Watson?" A very lovely woman suddenly appears through a side door to Watson's left, dressed all in dark red.

Watson clears his throat. "Yes, that's me."

The woman smiles. "He's ready for you, if you'll just follow me."

He? _Fuck, Holmes, what the hell?_ If he wasn't suddenly so damn nervous, Watson would be furious. Instead, he holds his breath as he follows the woman down a dark, dimly-lit hallway flanked with several unmarked doors. The carpet is black, muffling their footsteps, and Watson can hear faint strains of jazz music being played over an intercom system.

They stop at a door on the very end of the hallway. "Enjoy," the woman says, opening the door a crack before walking away. Watson waits until she is nearly out of sight before tentatively pushing the door open.

He has no idea what awaits him on the other side, but he definitely does not expect to see Holmes sprawled out on a large bed covered in black satin sheets, wearing nothing but a pair of jeans. Watson slams the door behind him.

"What the _fuck?!_ ," he hisses.

Holmes sits up slowly and holds up both hands. "Let me explain."

"You sure as fuck better, before I punch you in the _face_. God, you had me worried sick, and then you send me all these cryptic texts, and then I find you here all...all..." He flails his hand at Holmes' bare chest, which looks a lot more bronzed in the dim light. Watson glares even more.

"I know, I know, and I'm sorry, but it was the only way." He gets off the bed and walks over to Watson, who is still standing against the door, ready to bolt at any given notice. He takes Watson's hands in his, and then to Watson's shock, he leans up and nuzzles Watson's ear, licking just below it.

"They're watching us," Holmes whispers, breath hot and damp against Watson's skin. "You asked for me specifically, and I'm giving you the hour you requested."

Watson feels like he's slowly going insane. "Holmes, _what_ is going on?"

Holmes begins tugging him toward the bed. "We're in one of Moriarty's sex clubs," he continues, letting his mouth slide over the edge of Watson's jaw. "I posed as a john needing work, and I came with very good credentials. They hired me two days ago, and since then I've been talking to the other 'employees' to see if any of them knew about a missing girl. So far it seems a girl named Samantha disappeared three weeks ago. Her description matches that of the body I found, the one that was stolen from the lab."

"So you—you think the girl worked for Moriarty?" Watson has far too much trouble concentrating when Holmes won't stop kissing him, not to mention pulling him down onto the bed and suddenly pushing his suit jacket to the floor.

"She not only worked for him, she was more than likely Moriarty's favorite toy. You look fantastic, by the way." Holmes leans back and grins as he starts on the buttons of Watson's dress shirt. His hair is completely tousled, like he's just been well-fucked before Watson had arrived, and that—that is a dangerous thought to be having right now.

"Holmes, what are we even doing?" Watson whispers, grabbing Holmes' wrists. "You got me dressed up just to come out here and act like—like I want you to—"

"I have to wait a few more days before I can fake my way out of my contract without suspicion," Holmes replies, biting his bottom lip as he slides his hands inside Watson's shirt and pushes it down his arms. "I couldn't risk calling you; they keep a close watch on everyone to make sure no one's getting paid on the side."

Watson shouldn't be shivering uncontrollably at the moment, but he is. They're both in a dangerous situation, and none of it should involve Holmes touching him like this. Watson can't _focus_ when Holmes is touching him like this, like every dark fantasy Watson's never let himself acknowledge.

"Lestrade doesn't know where you are," Watson breathes, hating the hitch in his voice when Holmes leans in to mouth at his neck.

"Of course he doesn't, he'd never fucking agree to this. You smell like your lab." Holmes' hands skim idly over Watson's bare arms, and he sounds as if he's having a normal conversation that doesn't involve Watson biting the inside of his cheek to keep from shivering again.

"I smell like my fucking lab because that's where I was when you texted me."

"I figured as much, and I'm sorry, but this was the only way I could let you in on my plan. I told them a Dr. Watson would be coming to request my services, and here you are."

"Am I going to have to pay for you, Holmes? Seriously?" Watson manages to pull back and give Holmes a hard look, even though he's breathing too hard and his cheeks feel too flushed.

Holmes smirks, and right here and now, he looks devastatingly attractive. No wonder the place hired him on the spot.

For a horrible second, Watson thinks about other people coming into this room and having Holmes like this. His stomach goes cold.

"I'll pay you back," Holmes murmurs, tracing a lazy line over Watson's chest with the tips of his fingers.

This is insane, and Watson can't think when Holmes is putting on a show that could possibly get them getting into some serious trouble. And that's all it is, a fucking show for an undercover mission that Watson didn't really agree to be a part of.

He braces both hands on Holmes' chest and shoves him back. It's not a hard shove, but it's enough to make Holmes drop his hands.

"Where exactly do you plan on going with this?" Watson hisses a little breathlessly. "Because I'm not going to just sit here and let you—I'm not going to let you play this role with me, Holmes, I'm not. I'll fake my way back out the door, I don't care, but you need to get out of here before word gets back to Moriarty that you're snooping around." His shoulders rise and fall with each breath as he tries to calm his heartbeat, ignoring how slick Holmes' mouth looks in the reddish glow of the lamp beside them.

Holmes laughs softly and leans back in, nuzzling the curve of Watson's neck. "I'm not going to ravish you or anything, Watson, so just breathe," he whispers. Watson hates the smirk in his voice. "I never planned on keeping you here, anyway; all I needed was to get you a message."

"And what message is that?" Watson says, teeth clenched to keep himself from arching into Holmes' touch.

"I found the room where Samantha was murdered—the background matches the ones in the pictures perfectly. He killed her here, Watson, and I wouldn't be surprised if half the people here knew about it."

Watson jerks back. "Are you sure?"

All hints of playful seduction fade from Holmes' eyes for a moment. "Positive," he says, voice low and serious. "So you see, it wasn't exactly something I could put in a text."

"You can't stay here, Holmes, what if—"

"I'll be fine, trust me. Now go back to Lestrade and tell him to get a warrant to search this place. I'll be back in a day or two."

"A day or—I can't ask him for a warrant! He'll want to know where the hell you are, what's going on, and I can't just—" Without thinking, he cups both hands over Holmes' cheeks, his fingers digging into the edge of Holmes' jaw. "I'm not leaving here without you."

Holmes gives him a crooked smile. "You're going to have to," he replies softly. "I've got clients through tonight, and if I suddenly quit it'll raise a red flag. I'm new, they'll know something's up."

The cold, ugly clench in his stomach comes back with a vengeance. "Christ, Holmes, you're not seriously _servicing_ people, are you?"

Holmes looks down as his hands gently tug at the ends of Watson's shirt still caught at his wrists. "I'm undercover," he says in a rueful tone. "I've done worse."

Hot, furious anger explodes inside Watson without warning. He shoves off the bed and storms across the room, yanking his shirt back on with shaking hands. He wants to punch Holmes, or worse, pin him to the bed and do things he tries to never, ever think about. Both thoughts make Watson groan in frustration, and it takes considerable willpower not to throw something at Holmes' head.

"You're insane," Watson mumbles, throat painfully tight.

The expression in Holmes' eyes has gone strangely blank. "So you'll tell Lestrade to get the warrant?" he asks lazily as he leans back across the bed on his elbows, stretching his body out on display in complete contradiction to the gravity of the situation. He almost sounds bored.

Watson hates him.

"Fuck you, Holmes," he growls softly, scooping his suit jacket off the floor on his way to the door. He slams it behind him, knowing it's a dangerous, impulsive move, but he can't bring himself to care. But he does wait for the moment when someone will come out of one of those unmarked doors and demand to know what's going on.

No one stops him, though, and Watson slips out of the building and into the night without another word to anyone.

He sits in his car for a good ten minutes, sucking air into his lungs and willing his heart to stop racing. He finally looks down at himself to find that his shirt is still completely unbuttoned.

Watson swears and slams his hand into the steering wheel.

//

Were it anyone else besides Holmes, and anyone else besides Watson asking on his behalf, Lestrade would no doubt have laughed in Watson's face. As it is, he sighs wearily and lays his head in his hands.

"You think it's legit?" he asks, and Watson feels an involuntary surge of pride that the captain thinks of him as an equal, or at least something other than the medical examiner in the basement lab.

He's still furious with Holmes, but he also can't bring himself to disagree out of spite. Holmes would never have asked him to do any of this if he weren't completely certain.

Watson takes a deep breath and replies slowly, "Yeah, I do."

"He's still there, isn't he?"

Watson knows it's a rhetorical question, but he still says, "Yes."

Lestrade sits back in his chair, his arms folded over his chest. He doesn't look at Watson when he replies, "I'll call the judge."

Watson nods and tries not to be relieved. It's not like he can tell Holmes his plan worked, anyway.

As if he's reading Watson's thoughts, Lestrade says, "When he finally stops playing rent boy, tell him he's suspended for a month." He glances up from his computer screen, gives Watson a small smile. A smile of commiseration.

Watson suddenly feels incredibly exhausted as he leaves Lestrade's office. Regardless, he heads down to the lab and proceeds to go through the motions of his cases, cutting open bodies and determining causes of death. No one disturbs him for hours, and the lab is almost deathly quiet.

More than once, Watson catches himself looking over his shoulder, jumping whenever he hears random noises that sound too much like heavy footsteps.

"There's nothing there," he mumbles to himself, closing his eyes in an attempt to focus on something other than his paranoia.

Unfortunately, the only images that come to mind are flashes of Holmes leaning over him, shirtless with dark, heavy-lidded eyes as he whispers Watson's name and mouths at his skin, his hands splayed over Watson's chest. Against his will, Watson's breath hitches; he can still feel the soft skim of Holmes' lips over his ear, and the rough calluses of Holmes' fingers pushing his shirt off his shoulders. Watson remembers it all with startling clarity, and so does the rest of his body.

He throws his tools back onto the tray beside him with loud clang, hissing, _"Fuck,"_ out loud to the empty lab. He can't stay here like this, but he can't go home and stare at a phone he knows won't ring or buzz with a text. Watson is vibrating with tension and helpless frustration, as well as a mess of other emotions he doesn't want to examine right now. He feels as if he's about to crawl out of his skin.

Watson doesn't really think as he braces himself against the examination table and dials a number. He closes his eyes and inhales slowly, counting the rings with each exhale. On the fourth ring, Amber answers.

"John?" she asks with cautious surprise. "I was beginning to think you'd deleted my number."

Watson cups a hand over his face, his thumb digging into his eye. "Are you free tonight?"

She laughs. "Maybe. What did you have in mind?"

 _You in my bed as soon as possible._ "Dinner at my place?" He doesn't have any food in his fridge, but he does have a bottle of wine. It's a start.

Amber gives a coy little hum. "All right, I'll be there in an hour."

Watson hangs up without saying goodbye, then slowly turns his phone off.

On his way out, a detective Watson doesn't recognize stops him in the hall. "Dr. Watson, Captain Lestrade wanted me to tell you he got the warrant. He thought you'd want to know."

Watson mumbles, "Thanks," and keeps walking.

//

He doesn't have to cook for her, much to Watson's relief. He doesn't have to do much of anything except pour her a glass of wine and make small talk for half an hour until they both silently agree on what they're really here for. Amber takes Watson's hand, leads him back to the bedroom, and for the next hour he shuts his mind off, letting his body take over and exist in nothing but the simple physical act of sex. He doesn't think about Holmes like this with a nameless stranger, or of Holmes gasping his name like Amber does whenever Watson kisses behind her ear. Holmes would never say his name like that; Watson's never heard Holmes call him anything but his last name.

Watson grits his teeth against the unwanted monologue, but Amber takes it as a sign to crawl on top of him. She tips her head back, moaning softly, and as Watson looks up at her, he can't help but picture Holmes riding a faceless man, his face feigning pleasure each time he rolls his hips, the man's hands spread over his thighs to hold him in place.

It takes Watson longer than usual to come, and when he does it's silent and still. His eyes feel hot and little damp; he swipes the back of his hand angrily over his eyes as Amber rolls off him carefully.

"Hey, you okay, baby?" she asks as Watson gets out of bed.

"Fine," he says, shutting the bathroom door behind him. He leans against the counter and stares himself down in the mirror, hands braced along the edges of the sink.

"It doesn't matter," he whispers to his reflection. "None of it matters."

And then, from the other side of the door, he hears his cell phone ringing. It's Holmes' ringtone.

But before he can stumble out of the bathroom in time, Amber is already stretching across the bed to the nightstand and answering it herself. Watson stands dumbly in the bathroom doorway as she frowns curiously, saying, "Um, this is Amber, who's this?"

Watson's heart begins to pound harder than it has all night.

"Yeah, he's here, hold on one second." She hands the phone to Watson, smiling slightly in confusion. "He won't tell me his name, but he says he's your partner? Do you actually have partners in the lab?"

Now Watson remembers why he's never mentioned Holmes to her. "I should, um, take this in private. Sorry." He gives her a contrite shrug as he hurries out of the bedroom and down the hallway to the living room without turning the lights on. He swallows before putting the phone to his ear and saying, softly, "Holmes, where are you?"

"Am I interrupting date night again?" His voice sounds tired and worn, but Watson swears he can hear the sounds of traffic in the background.

Watson ignores the question. "Tell me where you are. Were you there for the warrant search?"

"Look outside."

He all but trips over his feet getting to the window.

Holmes is standing on the sidewalk below, wearing a rumpled navy shirt and jeans. He gives Watson a tiny wave.

Watson grips the phone a little tighter, his other hand splaying against the window. "You look like shit," he says roughly.

"This isn't even my shirt, so yeah, I buy it."

"Whose shirt is it?"

Holmes grins sheepishly. "No idea. I grabbed it once the raid began and my cover was blown." He shifts his feet as he shoves his hair out of his eyes with his free hand. "I'd ask to come up, but obviously you're otherwise engaged."

Watson suddenly realizes he's standing there in nothing but his boxers. Flushing hotly, he replies, "No, give me five minutes."

"I—"

" _Five minutes_ , Holmes, don't you dare go anywhere." He hangs up and yells down the hallway, "Sorry to rush you, but I've got an emergency."

Amber sticks her head out the doorway, already mostly dressed. "Is everything all right? Do you need me to—?"

"No, it's okay, I just—you need to leave." He kisses her lightly on the cheek as he gently nudges her toward the door.

Thankfully, she laughs instead of calling him a giant asshole. "Fine, I'll let you kick me out. But can I ask you a question?"

Watson spreads his hand. "Sure."

She slips her sandals on, ruffles a hand through her hair and says, "The last time we were together, when you got that text in the middle of the night—was that your partner then, too?"

His stomach bottoms out, but Watson manages to keep his expression neutral. He considers lying to her, but he can tell from the look in her eyes that she's already figured out the answer. "Yes," he replies.

"That's what I thought." Amber smirks as she grabs her keys and purse. "Well, it was fun anyway, John Watson. Don't lose my number." She blows him a kiss on her way out the door.

Against his better judgment, Watson goes back to the window to see if Holmes is watching her leave. Holmes is pacing the same spot on the sidewalk, but he stops the moment Amber comes out of the building. She pauses, and the two of them sort of face off for a moment without saying a word.

Then, to Watson's horror and amazement, Amber says, "He's all yours, no worries."

Holmes blinks at her, mouth opening then closing again before he glances up at Watson's window.

Amber just gives an amused snort as she walks away.

//

"You didn't have to get dressed for me," Holmes drawls as he bypasses the living room and goes straight for the bedroom, to the ratty old love seat Watson keeps in the corner. It's old as hell, but Watson's had it since his sophomore year of undergrad, and it's probably the most comfortable piece of furniture he owns. It's also Holmes' favorite place to sprawl in Watson's apartment.

But at the moment, Watson feels horribly awkward having Holmes in the room where he'd just gotten laid an hour ago. The bed is still mussed, and Watson knows the smell of sex is still in the air.

"I'm not staying naked for you," Watson replies without thinking, instantly regretting his words. He keeps his back to Holmes, hiding his blush as he tugs on a t-shirt and sweats.

"Yeah, you've probably been naked enough for one night." He knows that Holmes is eying the bed as he says the words. "D'you have a lighter around?"

Watson keeps a stash of them just for Holmes, not that he'll ever admit to this. He fishes one out of the pile hidden in his sock drawer and tosses it to Holmes, who's already fidgeting with an unlit cigarette.

"Start talking," Watson says after Holmes takes his first drag and drapes himself across the love seat.

Holmes raises an eyebrow. "Aren't you going to sit?"

"I prefer to stand." Watson crosses his arms and begins to pace at the foot of the bed. "By the way, Lestrade says you're suspended for a month."

"Just a month? The guy's getting soft on me."

"God _damn_ it, Holmes, you infiltrated a sex club run by a fucking mobster and _didn't tell anyone_! You're lucky he didn't fire your ass."

"I told you."

"You lured me down there without any explanation and pretended I was your client." Watson's stomach does an unwelcome swoop.

Holmes waves his cigarette dismissively. "We both made it out in the end, and the raid was entirely successful. We found guns and blood stains on the wall of the room from the pictures. Moriarty thought he'd cleaned up well, but he underestimated our CSU guys. I was kind of hoping I could talk you into going down to the lab and getting the DNA results for me." He smiles sweetly at Watson, but it only serves to piss off Watson more.

"I can't keep doing this, Holmes. I'm _not_ doing this for you anymore, I'm not."

Holmes narrows his eyes, swinging his legs off the arm of the love seat as he sits up. "It's your job, Watson," he replies quietly.

"It's _not_ my job to let you drag me around town and nearly get me killed!" It's a low blow, he knows, considering Holmes is still blaming himself for Watson's abduction from the lab. But right now Watson's head is filled with memories that are both terrifying ( _Moriarty's here, I should kill him_ ) and frustratingly heady ( _you wouldn't kiss me if it wasn't a game_ ). He's tired of hating Holmes for things Holmes himself doesn't even seem conscious of.

Holmes stares down at the cigarette burning between his fingers. "I hardly remember twisting your arm on a case."

"I'm not your partner, Holmes." He bites the words out, feeling a sick pleasure at the way Holmes flinches.

"I didn't know you were so hung up on titles."

"I'm not going to be at your beck and call anymore. I'll do your damn DNA test, but only because that _is_ part of my job and I want to bring Moriarty to justice. I'm not just doing it for you."

Holmes doesn't say anything as he watches the cigarette burn down to the filter. Then he slowly and methodically gets up and walks over to the bedroom window, lifting the sash and flicking the remains outside.

"Then I guess there's nothing else to say," he finally says, his back to Watson. His tone is flat, emotionless, and Watson swears he can physically see the way Holmes is closing himself off.

Watson drops down on to the bed, cups his face in his hands and sighs. "Have you been home yet?"

"No. I came straight here from the club." Watson glances up to find Holmes giving him a dark smile over his shoulder. "I figured I'd get a verbal beating from you if I didn't at least check in."

Watson huffs, refusing to take back his words, no matter how much the distant, wounded look in Holmes' eyes makes his chest ache. But he does say, "Thank you," softly, and Holmes' jaw twitches.

"Don't thank me, Doc," he replies tightly. He looks away, scrubs a hand through his hair.

Watson doesn't mean to say his name out loud, but Holmes just shakes his head and murmurs, "I'll leave you to it," as he walks out of the bedroom.

A few moments later, the front door opens and closes quietly.

Watson doesn't move from the bed for another half hour.

//

The DNA is a match for a Samantha Terino, age twenty-two. She ran away from her home in Indiana six months ago and came to Chicago to start a band. Somehow along the way, she ended up selling her body for money.

Her pictures on file with the FBI are identical to the dead girl stolen from Watson's lab. They don't have a body, but they are closer to convicting Moriarty of conspiracy and murder than they ever were before. A paper trail ties the sex club to Moriarty's corporation, and partial fingerprints show that Moriarty was present in the room where Samantha was murdered.

It's still all circumstantial, Watson knows. Moriarty's lawyers claim he had no knowledge of a sex club kept on his books, or having ever met a Samantha Terino. Partial fingerprints are partial fingerprints, nothing more.

But the story is everywhere, pinning Moriarty's good corporate name to the murder of a young runaway prostitute under his employ. He is practically convicted by way of the media; Moriarty's company's stock drops at least thirty points by the end of the day, and Moriarty declines all requests for interviews.

It's not justice, but it's a start.

Watson texts Holmes with _congrats on Moriarty_ , not really expecting a reply.

He doesn't get one.

//

A week goes by, then two. Watson doesn't hear a thing from Holmes, no random pass by the lab or a call or short text. He tries not to think about where Holmes is on his current case, if he's sleeping enough, if he's using; for a second Watson considers tracking down Holmes' Narco contact and asking if he's seen Holmes at all.

After sixteen days with no sign of Holmes, Watson goes to Lestrade with the excuse that he needs Holmes' signature on some old paperwork.

Lestrade, of course, just looks at him like he's stupid. "Paperwork, Watson? Really?"

Watson flushes. "Yeah, he's terrible at getting back to me with this stuff, I'm just, uh. Trying to track him down and make him take care of it."

"If you want to know Holmes' whereabouts, doctor, just ask."

He purses his lips, staring intently at the papers in his hands. "Is...he all right?"

"He's fine, I saw him two days ago. Looked like hell, naturally, but otherwise fine." Lestrade smirks. "Suspension doesn't really sit well with him, you know?"

Watson smiles weakly.

"If you want my two cents, I'd say he's still tracking leads on the Moriarty case. Not that he'd let me catch him at it."

 _Or me, for that matter._ Watson nods his thanks and turns to leave.

"Oh hey, Watson, one more thing."

He pauses in the doorway, looks over his shoulder at the captain. "Yeah?"

"Holmes asked me about you. Wanted to know if you'd had anymore intruders in the lab. I told him you'd been busy and hadn't reported anything unusual."

"Everything's been fine."

"Obviously, since Holmes is now apparently talking to me more than you."

Watson swallows tightly, the blush in his cheeks creeping slowly down his neck. "The Moriarty case...um, it took a lot out of us."

"I'd say so. You do realize Holmes doesn't give two shits about anyone in this department but you, right? If anything, being on suspension kills him because he can't be in your lab harassing you all day." Lestrade sits back in his chair, giving Watson a far too perceptive look.

Watson doesn't have much of a response to that, so he mumbles another, "thank you," and hurries out of Lestrade's office.

He shuts himself in his lab and buries himself in backed-up cases, working until he's practically cross-eyed with fatigue and hunger. Watson sinks into the closest chair and sighs, rolling his head back to work the kinks of his neck. He wishes his apartment wasn't a good twenty minute drive away.

"Dr. Watson?"

His eyes fly open to find a guy from CSU standing in the doorway to the lab. He's pulling a gurney behind him. A gurney with a body bag laying on top of it.

"Yes?" Watson asks carefully.

"Detective Holmes asked that this body be delivered to you ASAP. It was just discovered a few hours ago in a junkyard on the east side of town." He wheels the body around to the examination table, and as he unzips the bag, Watson already knows what he's going to see.

It's the girl, Samantha.

"Holmes found her?" Watson whispers.

The guy nods. "And he wanted me to point out these to you." He indicates what appear to be tire marks across the girl's left wrist. "The tire treads might belong to one of Moriarty's cars."

Watson knows without a doubt that this is what has been consuming the last two weeks for Holmes. He hasn't been tracking down old case leads—he's been searching for Samantha Terino's body. The body Watson lost.

As exhausted as Watson feels, he's not going anywhere tonight. Holmes wouldn't expect him to.

//

It could be like all the other dozens of nights before, only this time Watson's unlocking Holmes' front door without a desperate, drug-tinged message begging him to do so. The lights are out, as usual, but Watson spots fresh dishes in the sink, a bowl of half-eaten soup. He knows Holmes is here.

He's about to quietly make his way down the hallway to the bedroom when he hears soft snoring from the living room. He squints at the couch, and in the moonlight sifting through the blinds Watson can make out the shape of Holmes curled up on the cushions, a worn wool coat draped over him for a makeshift blanket. Upon closer inspection, Watson feels his chest clench—the coat used to be his. Holmes stole it from him a year ago as a joke, and Watson never bothered to get it back.

It's a rare occasion for Watson to catch Holmes truly asleep. It's almost surreal, actually; Holmes is never so still and peaceful, his body completely calm and free of all his restless energy. His face is slack, lips slightly parted, his lashes fanned out delicately against his cheeks. He looks so young with Watson's coat clutched under his arm and his hair all mussed; Watson forgets sometimes that Holmes just turned twenty-eight this year.

He doesn't want to wake him, and yet the news Watson has can't wait. Dawn is less than an hour away as it is, although for all he knows, Holmes has been asleep for all of ten minutes.

Watson kneels beside the couch, barely eye-to-eye with Holmes. He licks over his lips once, then leans close and whispers, "Hey, Holmes. Wake up."

Something very much like a smirk twitches the corner of Holmes' mouth before he frowns sleepily and snuffles into the cushions. "Watson?"

There's a hint of young vulnerability in his voice that makes Watson want press closer and bury his face against Holmes' neck. "Yeah, it's me."

"Wha..." Holmes blinks a few times, scrubbing the back of his hand over his eyes. "What time is it?"

"I don't know, probably close to six in the morning."

"Oh." He huffs, which turns into a yawn.

"Have you been asleep long?"

"Maybe. Didn't plan on it." Holmes drops his hand and finally focuses on Watson, eyes slowly becoming more alert. "What are you doing here?"

Watson takes a deep breath and says softly, "I found Moriarty's fingerprints on Samantha's body. He tried to strangle her."

Holmes' eyes widen. "But she fought back."

"I think so. His last resort was stabbing her. She died from the blood loss."

He can barely see the way Holmes' throat bobs as he swallows. "But at least she fought back."

"Yeah." Watson doesn't know why they're whispering. "How did you find her?"

"I tracked down the guy who helped Moriarty abduct you. His father owns a junkyard, it was an easy dumping ground for a dead body."

"Where's the guy now?"

"He's dead. Shot in the back two weeks ago. But thank god the guy blabbed enough to his girlfriend." Holmes' gaze drifts over Watson's face as he speaks, almost as if he's remembering what he looks like.

"He told her about Moriarty?"

"More or less. We've got in her in protective custody right now, and the DA's working on a grand jury date." He smiles a little. "And now that you've got Moriarty's prints, I'd say that date will be sooner than later." His hand shifts against the coat, fingers flexing.

Watson's heart thuds heavily in his chest. "You weren't going to tell me." It's not a question, just a statement of fact.

Holmes doesn't answer immediately, continuing to catalog Watson's features. "I didn't think you'd want to know," he finally replies softly.

"Of course I would, you've got a witness now. And that's why I'm here. We've finally _got him_ , Holmes."

He blinks slowly, finally meeting Watson's eyes. "'We'?" Holmes asks.

"Yes. It's our case, yours and mine. I never said it wasn't." Watson feels the heat in his cheeks, knowing Holmes is replaying every bit of Watson's words in his head from their previous fight.

"Our case." Holmes says the words carefully, like he's testing them out loud.

Watson huffs, finally giving in to the urge to touch him. He slides his hand into Holmes' hair and cups the back of his skull as he presses his nose against Holmes' temple. Holmes goes tense under Watson's hand, but he doesn't pull away.

"I'm sorry, okay?" he whispers, lips grazing lightly over the soft stubble covering Holmes' cheek. "I don't mean to—I didn't mean any of it. I just...you scared the shit out of me with that undercover gig and I didn't—"

"I was in total control of the situation, Watson," Holmes replies. He stays completely still, and his skin feels hot against Watson's mouth. "But I don't think you were concerned about my safety so much as for your own sanity."

"My sanity depends on your safety, Holmes."

"It also depends on keeping the status quo, knowing that certain things will always be constant."

Watson pulls back. The air in the room has suddenly become far too thick. "I'm a man of science, I like consistency," he replies, and the heavy thudding in his chest takes on a faster, more frantic rhythm.

Holmes smiles, but it's sad, regretful. "I know," he says. "But sometimes I'm stupid and forget that about you. I promise I won't do it again."

"Forget what about me?"

"That you're Dr. John Watson, and I'm Detective Sherlock Holmes, and that's the way things should be." He sighs, turning his head away from Watson. "If...if you want me to put in for a transfer, I will," he adds, voice muffled against the couch cushion. "Once the Moriarty case is wrapped up I'll call a buddy of mine in the Seattle PD, see if there are any—"

"What?" Watson grabs Holmes' chin, forces him to meet his eyes again. Something horribly desperate and angry flares inside of him, making his hands shake. "I don't want you to fucking transfer! How could you—why would you ever think—you're not leaving Chicago." He barely manages not to blurt out _you're not leaving_ me.

Holmes tries half-heartedly to jerk his chin free. "You were right, you know. You're not my partner," he says softly. "I expect too much from you, and I should know better."

"Holmes, don't—"

"I think it's probably best I go to Seattle, old man," Holmes whispers, using the stupid endearment Watson's always hated. "It's best for both of us, and I think you know it, too." He sits up, letting Watson's coat fall carelessly to the floor as he rubs a hand over his two-day-old stubble.

Watson sits back on his heels. There's a rushing sound in his ears. "So that's it? You're just going to pack up and leave and maybe send me a text once in a while?"

Holmes cups both hands over his face, elbows braced against his knees. "It wouldn't be like that."

"No? You've already shown how easy it is for you to cut me out without even leaving the same goddamn _building_ , how do you think it'll be when you're on the other side of the country?"

"It won't be like that," Holmes says again, softer this time.

Everything from the past several weeks seems to come crashing down around Watson in one fell swoop; Holmes and the photos, the abduction, the body disappearing, the sex club, Holmes' silence, all of it a massive, overwhelming jumble of memories that culminate in the image of Holmes' empty apartment.

Watson feels helpless, angry, and desperate, and he realizes suddenly that these are all familiar emotions when it comes to this frustrating man sitting before him. And he doesn't know who he is without them, without _Holmes_.

Watson can't find the words to tell him any of this. None of it would make a difference; Holmes has already convinced himself he's leaving with whatever fucked-up logic his brain can supply.

So he doesn't use logic to keep Holmes. Instead, he curls his fingers around Holmes' wrists, gently tugs his hands away from his face, and slides his open mouth across Holmes'.

Holmes gasps and tries to jerk away from the kiss, but Watson holds him tight, following him down when Holmes leans back against the couch.

"Watson, don't," Holmes breathes against Watson's lips. His chest rises and falls in stuttered gulps of air, like he's suddenly terrified.

"I'm not letting you punish yourself for all of this," Watson says, teeth scraping over Holmes' lower lip. He feels the involuntary way Holmes shivers, and it makes him bolder. "I'm not letting you run because you think you know what's best for me."

"Watson, please." He struggles against Watson's hold, whimpering softly when Watson refuses to relent.

"Don't leave. Please don't leave." Watson whispers the words into the corner of Holmes' mouth, his chin, through soft bites against his jaw. Holmes is still panting like a scared animal, and Watson gentles each passing kiss, the tip of his nose nuzzling over Holmes' cheek.

"I—I don't want you to take pity on me." He's never heard Holmes' voice so small, so utterly lost and vulnerable. "I swear to god it'll kill me, Watson."

He pulls back just enough to find Holmes' eyes squeezed shut, his skin flushed a bright pink, lips wet and swollen. He's the most gorgeous, fucked-up man Watson has ever known, and he's _his_.

"The night you came back to my apartment after leaving the club, I'd left the lab because I couldn't think straight," Watson says as he slowly crawls up Holmes body until he's straddling Holmes' hips. He braces both hands against the back of the couch, caging Holmes' shoulders as he licks his way along Holmes' jaw to his ear. "I couldn't think straight because I was so fucking angry at you, for putting us in danger and not telling me everything and just being so fucking arrogant about it all I could've killed you."

"I—"

"But I was also angry at you for making me want you so damn bad when I knew it was all an act. You can't just give yourself to me like that and not drive me crazy, Holmes." He blows softly over the shell of Holmes' ear, making Holmes give a strangled little moan and finally touch him, his hands curling into Watson's hips.

"I'm sorry," Holmes whispers.

"I don't want an apology. What I'm trying to say is, that night with Amber, I—god, I couldn't—" Watson swallows, forces himself to say it all out loud. "I couldn't stop wishing she was you," he says in a rush, letting his eyes flutter closed.

But suddenly Holmes groans Watson's name and turns his head to let their mouths meet in another rough, messy kiss. This time Holmes returns it wholeheartedly, his hands sliding up Watson's chest to frame his collarbone with his thumbs.

"Your face got me through the worst parts," Holmes gasps, fingers flexing at the neck of Watson's shirt.

"The worst parts?" Watson can't quite focus when he's fully hard in his scrub pants and pressed flush against Holmes.

"The...the clients. I would close my eyes and pretend they were you." He lifts his hips up, a slow, careful grind against Watson, and they moan into each other's mouths.

"God, Holmes—"

"It wasn't an act, John. I knew what I was doing, bringing you to that place, but deep down I also knew it was just an excuse to touch you like I'd been wanting to for months, probably even years." He shoves his hands underneath Watson's t-shirt, his nails scratching lightly over Watson's stomach muscles, and soon Watson feels as if he'll go insane if he doesn't get Holmes' skin against his immediately.

There is a frantic flurry of shirts and hands, neither one of them willing to break apart long enough to properly shed their clothes. There's a vague thought in the back of Watson's head that they should stop to move to Holmes' bedroom, but then Holmes sinks his teeth into the curve of Watson's neck and sucks sharply, and Watson decides the bedroom is overrated. He's got the bare dips and curves of Holmes' shoulders and chest under his palms, and their hips pushing together almost frantically. Holmes fumbles with the drawstring of Watson's scrub pants, shoving his hand inside to palm the head of Watson's cock.

He shouldn't be this close, but Watson can't help the way he cries out and bucks against Holmes' hand, his entire body shuddering with a rush of heat and sensation. He doesn't realize he's gasping Holmes' name over and over until Holmes laughs breathlessly and kisses the corner of Watson's mouth, whispering, "It's okay, you're okay, I've got you."

"I need—you've got to—Holmes, please, just—"

"Yeah, I know." Holmes manages to push Watson's scrubs and boxers down his thighs enough to free his cock, and then it's a matter of getting their shaking hands to coordinate together on the fly of Holmes' jeans. It takes too long for Watson's liking, and he growls, "Fucking _hell_ ," as his fingers slip over the buttons. Somehow this makes Holmes laugh again and pull him back into another kiss.

"I love seeing a man of science lose his coordination," Holmes says, smirking against Watson's mouth.

"I'm glad you're still so together," Watson gasps as he bites Holmes' lip. He reaches down blindly, yanks at the buttons once more, and Holmes' fly is finally open. He doesn't waste any time after that, and neither does Holmes; the second Watson feels the calluses of Holmes' fingers pressing Watson's cock against the hot length of his own, he hisses _shit_ , and Holmes echoes the sentiment. There's no more conversation after that.

It's over far too quickly, but later Watson will realize it was probably always supposed to be like this the first time. He's stupidly happy when Holmes comes first, jaw clenched and eyes closed, strands of damp hair clinging to his forehead. Watson doesn't look away for a second, holds on just long enough to catch every second of bliss flashing across Holmes' face until his body can't take it anymore. He folds himself around Holmes, his arms wrapped Holmes' neck, close enough that he swears he can feel Holmes' heartbeat pounding within his own chest. When he comes it's almost silent, his mouth open and gasping against Holmes' temple, any other sounds drowned out by Holmes' harsh, stuttered breathing.

He sinks into Holmes when he's finally spent, boneless and ignoring the mess between them. With his clean hand, Holmes trails his fingertips lazily up and down the ridge of Watson's spine.

"Lestrade told me you'd asked about me," Watson murmurs into Holmes' neck.

Holmes hums softly, turning his hand so that his knuckles brush along the edge of Watson's ribs. "His memory's better than I thought. Amazing."

Watson smiles. "I think he knew what you were up to."

"Bullshit, I saw him in a bar. For all Lestrade knows, I've been off doing enough coke to kill a small horse."

Even through the hazy post-orgasm reverie, Watson goes slightly tense. "Were you?" he asks softly, kissing over a bruise left on Holmes' shoulder.

Holmes slides both arms around Watson's waist, just shy of a loose hug. "No," he whispers. "I was too busy tracking down a missing body."

//

They clean up as best they can before dragging each other to the shower. There's daylight outside by the time Watson pulls Holmes into bed.

"You should know I'm not into snuggling, Doc," Holmes says, but he ends up rolling Watson onto his side to spoon up against his back.

"Good, neither am I. But I like sleeping a whole hell of a lot." Watson smirks sleepily as he links their fingers together over his stomach.

Holmes mumbles something around a yawn that sounds a lot like, "When it's like this, me, too."

He's supposed to be at work today, but Watson knows he won't be going into the lab today. The results of Samantha's autopsy need to be given to Lestrade and the DA, but it can wait. All of it can wait. He's not leaving this bed for a while.

"So...Seattle?" Watson's glad his back is to Holmes. He presses his face into the pillow and tries not to hold his breath.

He feels lips skim over the back of his neck. "I hear it's really shitty this time of year," Holmes replies, and the words buzz over Watson's skin. "I always liked Chicago in the springtime, anyway. Why fuck with a good thing, y'know?"

Watson breathes out. "Yeah." He squeezes Holmes' hand, and Holmes buries his face in Watson's hair, squeezing back.


End file.
